


The Wish

by softestpunk



Series: (Witcher) Christmas Kisses [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Fluff, Kissing, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-04 23:18:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16799023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/softestpunk/pseuds/softestpunk
Summary: Ciaran settled elegantly next to him, all lithe grace, their shoulders brushing together on the fallen log which Iorveth had managed, quite by accident, to isolate himself on.On the last day of the old year, Ciaran tells Iorveth his wish for the new one.





	The Wish

Iorveth started as he felt someone sit beside him, his guard slipping tonight for the first time in too long to remember.

Ciaran settled elegantly next to him, all lithe grace, their shoulders brushing together on the fallen log which Iorveth had managed, quite by accident, to isolate himself on.

His scoia’tael followers were loyal, but treated him with a level of reverence that meant they hesitated to get close to him. This, Iorveth suspected, was how kings of old felt.

But not Ciaran. Not the first to find him after the Ravine of the Hydra, the first to swear his name to the cause under Iorveth’s guidance, always a good soldier and now the best possible friend.

His pretty, clever features glowed in the light of the bonfire, and Iorveth was glad now that he’d taken the younger elf’s advice. Their brethren _did_ need this one night of warmth and cheer, and the raid that had enabled it had been good for Iorveth. Cracking a few dh'oine skulls always cheered him up.

“You're staring,” Ciaran said, a smile turning up his perfect bow-shaped lips.

“Everyone stares at you,” Iorveth responded. “I would have thought you’d be quite used to it by now.”

Ciaran hummed. “I am,” he said. “But there are those who stare, and those one _wants_ to stare.”

A lump formed in Iorveth’s throat. He was afraid to ask which category he fell into.

Either would require action he wasn't sure he was ready to take.

“What will you wish for?” Ciaran asked, taking advantage of Iorveth’s pause.

“Wish for?” Iorveth asked, confused.

“The year dies tonight. Tomorrow is the first day of a new one,” Ciaran said, and this much, Iorveth knew. It was why they were doing this. “You must make a wish for it. Or is that a Southern tradition?”

“I fear it is,” Iorveth said. “I'm not sure I have the heart for wishes.”

“Well,” Ciaran said, reaching out to lay his hand over Iorveth's, forcing his fingers between the other elf’s. “ _I_ wish that you would stop staring.”

Iorveth’s heart sank. Of course.

To be let down gently by this beautiful elf who held his heart in the palm of his hand was as great a gift as Iorveth ever expected.

“And start _acting_ ,” Ciaran finished.

Iorveth turned to look at him, confused all over again, and Ciaran pounced.

He pressed soft, perfect lips to Iorveth’s own scarred mouth, gentle at first, squeezing Iorveth’s fingers between his bow-and-sword-callused ones, the hands of a creature who lived and died on the edge of battle.

Heat flared in Iorveth’s belly, his chest tight at the thought of having this. This small comfort in the middle of everything, a cove in a storm that he so desperately wanted to shelter in.

Ciaran pulled back after a moment, but only to stand and then drop himself into Iorveth’s lap, eyes sparkling like emeralds in the low light, broad grin painted across his face.

“I have not misread you?” Ciaran asked, as though he’d ever seen a lap he might not have been welcome in.

“No,” Iorveth said. “I had imagined I was being subtle.”

“Your imagination is undoubtedly a fascinating place,” Ciaran murmured, leaning in again.

Hesitation evaporated as Ciaran sealed his lips over Iorveth’s for the second time. Iorveth's hand moved to the other elf’s hair, fingers raking along his scalp, tightening to hold him in place.

Ciaran only wriggled closer in response, his warmth seeping into Iorveth’s body. His lips parted, tongue darting out to taste along the seam of Iorveth's lips. A tongue that Iorveth had been on the sharp edge of more than once, now coaxing his mouth open to delve into the warmth, soft and sweet.

His fingers stroked through Ciaran’s hair, free hand settling on his hip to brace him. Anything to keep him close.

“You are _beautiful_ ,” Iorveth murmured as they broke for air.

“So are you,” Ciaran said, with such incredible sincerity that it stole the breath from Iorveth’s lungs. “Carved of stone though you might be,” he added, teasing.

“Not for you,” Iorveth responded. “I would show softness for you,” he confessed to the stunningly beautiful elf who’d sought him out and kept him sane and guided his rage to purpose so many times in their short acquaintance.

Ciaran climbed out of Iorveth’s lap, and he immediately missed the warmth.

“Then come and do so,” he said, offering his hand.

Iorveth took it, all the hope of the year to come swelling in his heart.


End file.
